


the friction in your jeans

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Canon Compliant, Grindr, Hotel Sex, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8962354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: Patrick shouldn't even have Grindr installed on his phone. He knows this. But sometimes touring gets so lonely...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, I could care less
> 
>  
> 
> Actually I care a lot. I love you guys. Truly, have awesome holidays, and please enjoy this porn.

Listen, Patrick knows—he _already knows_ —that even downloading the Grindr app on his phone is a really phenomenally bad idea. Creating an account is an act of temporary insanity.

It’s just—and he’s not making excuses or trying to justify anything, here—he gets so _lonely_ on tour. Elisa doesn’t mind him hooking up with guys, as long as they’re always honest about it, but that’s a lot harder to pull off on tour, too. He doesn’t exactly want to leave a string of indiscretions trailing behind him in every city. Pete being an outrageous human being is probably the only thing that’s kept Patrick’s bisexuality out of the tabloids for this long. He’d kinda like to keep it that way.

It’s a big, stupid risk, in other words. But Patrick’s not thinking with his brain. He’s thinking with his big, stupid penis.

So Patrick downloads Grindr. Patrick makes an account. Against every kind of judgment, he starts swiping.

The plan—to the extent that this string of increasingly poor decisions constitutes a plan—is not to swipe right on anyone. Patrick’s chosen a profile picture that does not show his inconveniently famous face in a recognizable way—it’s a close-up, the angled brim of his hat hiding most of his features, showing only his pink smirking mouth (this was the lewdest thing he could work himself up to). Despite the precaution, even his stupid sex-starved brain is aware that he can’t actually meet up with anyone without compromising his identity and possibly his reputation. He’s just _looking_. What harm could possibly come from _looking_?

Without ever deciding to, Patrick has unbuttoned his black jeans and fished his bright-ideas dick out of them. He swipes and strokes and imagines what he could do with this slideshow of abdominal muscles and bedroom eyes, if he could touch instead of just looking.

He’s picking up speed, lingering longer over particularly good pictures, the kind he’d like to swipe left on, and building up heat that spreads from the friction on his skin into the tight coiled muscles of his belly. He feels pervy, using profile pictures of strangers for this self-gratifying end, but somehow that only makes it hotter. Patrick’s close now, his thoughts turned pink and feverish, and he’s swiping for the picture he wants to come to, his world narrowed to a dizzy, drunk point of _need_ , and he is absolutely in no way prepared for Pete fucking Wentz to fill the screen of his phone.

Patrick is so startled he comes, without ceremony, all over his hand and stomach. He’s breathing hard, can feel his pulse thundering lustily in his ears. He pants and stares at the picture of Pete’s naked, tattooed torso, just barely less identifiable than his face would be, and before Patrick can really get his thoughts straight or process any of the information he has just been slammed with, his thumb makes an executive decision and slides to the left.

A second later awareness of what he’s just done penetrates his prefrontal cortex, the part of his brain concerned with reason and consequences instead of boners, and Patrick flings his phone across the room. It thumps into the hotel room wall he shares with Pete, because _of fucking course it does_. Patrick thinks about screaming _that wasn’t a knock I wasn’t knocking_ but ultimately decides that this runs contrary to his brand new emergency response plan of never speaking to Pete Wentz, his best friend and bandmate, ever again.

“How could you,” Patrick asks his traitorous thumb, the one that just told Pete Patrick wanted to fuck him. Patrick has kept the lid on that particular piece of mortification for _years_ , only to be undone by a single horny movement of what is swiftly becoming his least favorite appendage.

The situation that seemed exciting and sexy when his dick was in his hand turns a little pathetic and very sad in the aftermath. Patrick, shaky and certainly in shock, is cleaning himself up in the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with his own reflection, when his phone chimes softly from the other room.

 _God oh god oh god_. Patrick sprints for his phone. He’s got to uninstall Grindr, delete his account, burn his SIM card, destroy the evidence—

His screen glows with a notification that he’s match a match on Grindr. For several seconds, Patrick’s brain shorts out. He just looks from his phone screen to the wall separating him and Pete in dumb, buffering silence.

Finally, Patrick’s thoughts come back online and helpfully inform him that because all of this is impossible, it cannot possibly be happening, so there’s nothing to worry about.

“Here’s the thing,” Patrick tells himself. “The thing is this.” But he has nothing to follow it up with. He’s totally off script here, in unimagined, impossible territory. He has no idea what to do. There is no plan for this. This is so far beyond any of his worst-case-scenario catastrophe contingencies.

Patrick’s phone chimes again. He’s got an unread Grindr message. It’s from the only person he’s interacted with on this infernal app.

It’s from Pete.

If Patrick thought he was shaky _before_. Jesus fucking Christ. Patrick opens the message, holding his breath because he’s forgotten how to operate his lungs. The messages reads _fancy meeting u here_.

Patrick’s brain blinks out again. His thumbs take over. _did you swipe right because you wanted to tease me or because you wanted to fuck me_ , Patrick’s rogue thumbs type. If Patrick was still capable of thought, he’s sure his thoughts would all be disbelief.

 _do i have to pick or will you let me do both_ , comes the reply.

Patrick isn’t making decision anymore. No more plans. He’s just reacting. He’s out of his room and standing with unbuttoned pants in the hall, knocking on Pete’s door, and he isn’t thinking about a damned thing but what he might find on the other side of it.

Pete opens the door flush-faced and slightly out of breath. “Holy shit,” he says to Patrick’s lips, which is where his eyes have gotten stuck.

“Yeah,” agrees Patrick. His skin is made of burning. He wants to be touching Pete so badly that it feels like his skeleton will jump out of his skin and close the gap between them if his muscles don’t get there fast enough. “So, um… Can I come in?”

There’s a tense moment where Pete steps to the side to let him in, but doesn’t quite step far enough, and Patrick stops breathing again as the distance between their chests shrinks to less than an inch and for a second the velocity feels terminal, like they’re going to snap together like magnets, and then Patrick’s through, in the hotel room, and Pete is closing the door.

This is Pete, Patrick tries to reason with himself, not knowing if he’s trying to talk himself out of it or just calm himself down. You’ve touched Pete a thousand times. You’ve shared beds with him. He hangs on you on stage like he’s your scarf. How many times have you wrestled, roughhoused, hugged or fought? This isn’t different. You can breathe. It’s not different.

But it’s different.

Patrick hovers awkwardly beside Pete’s bed, not sure what comes next. Does he sit or stand or take his clothes off or…? Pete takes a step closer to him, a stricken look on his face that mirrors Patrick’s. Pete unzips his hoodie, revealing his bare chest beneath, and then looks worriedly at Patrick, as if he doesn’t know whether this is okay.

At this rate they’ll never get anywhere. After waiting 12 years, Patrick feels he’s been patient enough. “I wasn’t joking,” the sexually insane part of Patrick blurts out. “I am so fucking serious about this. About you.” Patrick swallows hard, working up his courage. “About fucking you.”

The tension in the room gives all at once. Pete lets his hoodie slide off his shoulders and onto the floor as he moves towards Patrick. His torso bare, tattooed and lately toned his hair that ridiculous bleach blond Patrick finds so helplessly charming; his hot hungry eyes, the color of whiskey, shining like Mars.

He lifts his hand to cup Patrick’s jaw. Pete’s head tips to the side, his lips parted around short, quick breaths, and he brushes his thumb across Patrick’s lower lip with tenderness. With wonder.

The way Pete’s looking at him makes it seem all at once less like a hook-up and more like something _real_. This is terrifying. Patrick’s blood gets confused, can’t decide if it should route to his cock or to his _feelings_ , and the worst possible thing that could happen right now is Patrick _thinks_ , comes to his senses, and stops this.

So Patrick turns his head into Pete’s palm, bites into Pete’s thumb, and stares up through his lashes at Pete’s serious, serious face. Pete trembles, frozen again; then Pete's grip turns rough and he pulls Patrick mouth to his own.

It is a kiss like a demand, like a robbery, like being held at gunpoint. It is a kiss that contains nearly 15 years of longing, realized in one swift, surreal meeting of matched muscle, twinned tongues, same skin. Patrick’s stomach clenches like he’s on a rollercoaster and he grabs Pete’s hips just to try and brace himself, just to hold on to something, but it’s not enough—they both topple, Patrick scrambling backwards onto the bed and Pete coming down on top of him, lips teeth tongue glued to Patrick’s.

The important thing is that Pete—Pete!—keep kissing him like this. It is the only important thing. Patrick never imagined—Patrick never dared hope—Patrick sucks hard on Pete’s tongue and Pete’s answering moan shoots right down into the quivering _core_ of Patrick, filling all the deep places he desperately wants Pete to touch, and that’s it for thinking. They’re just bodies now.

After holding back so long, they are out of time—they used it up waiting. Pete’s hands are urgent, sliding Patrick’s waistband off his hips, tugging jeans and boxers off without peeling apart the layers. Impatient whimpers emit from Patrick’s throat; Pete’s mouth affixes to the vibration as if responding to an invitation. Patrick rocks his hips up, brushing his erect cock against Pete’s tight jeans, and works his own reckless hands beneath the fabric. He finds Pete’s dick hot and swollen and hard, squeezing harder than he means to in his pleasure and enthusiasm. Pete’s teeth scrape Patrick’s throat in answer, capturing and releasing Patrick’s flesh in exquisite pinpoints of almost-pain.

Patrick tugs Pete’s dick with raw wanting, quick to settle into a natural rhythm— _drummers do it best_ and all—and is gratified when Pete breaks from his neck, gasping. He sinks his head into the soft pale hollow of Patrick’s collarbone, his bitten lips brushing tender skin as he whispers, “Fuck, fuck, I want this so much.”

Even in the heat of it all, Patrick is careful with his answer; too much truth will shatter this moment, will let reality in. Patrick is so fucking done with reality. He wants to be eclipsed by the heat and wholeness of Pete instead. He growls out, “Then take it.”

In answer, Pete grabs him by the hips and flips him over.

Patrick’s heart is exploding, reverberating metallic on his tongue. His whole body responds to Pete’s touch, to the raw kinetic potential of this movement, this moment. Pete works himself out of his own pants and Patrick feels the pressing flush of Pete's bare skin against his ass cheeks. Reflexively, his body rises to grind his skin greedily against Pete's hard, hot cock, the straddling cradle of Pete's hips. Pete wets two fingers in Patrick's mouth and presses them one at a time into the tight muscle of Patrick's asshole. Bodies, just bodies: perfectly unself-conscious, a creature of pure hedony now, Patrick writhes in answer, bucking against Pete's slow hand, begging without need for words, _more, more_.

Pete's one-handed fumble with a condom wrapper is making Patrick lose his mind, so he reaches back to grab the foil packet and tear it open. Pete's empty hand snakes around Patrick's dick and the push-pull, the twin pressure of the fingers around him and the fingers inside him, just about make Patrick go blind. There is not a fucking second to spare, not after they've waited so long.

“ _Now_ ,” Patrick pants. “Pete, please, please, _now_.”

“Are you sure? Right now?” says Pete, and Patrick can _hear_ the smug, shit-eating grin. Patrick would hit him, if there weren’t so many things he’d rather—Pete’s fingers press deep up into the heat of him, j-u-s-t grazing _that spot_ , and Patrick is going to murder him if he doesn’t—if he doesn’t—

God, god, the lubed tip of Pete’s cock, pressing slick, not kidding about his intention to tease; Patrick’s getting rug burn on his face from how hard he’s grinding down into the polyester comforter, desperate desperate for—for—

“Fuck you,” Patrick moans.

“Fuck _you_ ,” Pete says. Patrick can still hear the grin.

“Yes, that’s what I’m asking you to do,” Patrick manages. Pete’s lips press in a quick, incongruously tender kiss on the back of his neck, over so quick he could have imagined it.

He’s distracted, anyway: Pete’s hand on Patrick’s dick, rubbing, rubbing. A final probing thrust of Pete’s fingers and then an absence so sudden Patrick cries out, and then all at once Pete _fills_ him, thick and good and true like all this time they’ve been a matched lock and key, like all his life Patrick’s been meant for this and he’s only finding out now.

The sounds coming out of Pete are not remotely coherent but they’re enough to say _me too, me too, all this time I’ve been made of you_. At once it’s ludicrous they’ve wasted so much time wearing separate skins and like every moment waiting has been replaced by this once, which rockets forward and backwards through all of time, consuming forever, remaking their lives so it’s this, always this, so this perfect complete moment becomes their _only_ moment.

Pete’s hips move with destructive precision, scraping and shivering Patrick’s insides as he pulls out and slamming sunbursts, blinding brilliance, firing fierce up each of Patrick’s nerve endings as he thrusts back in. Patrick realigns, his bones remade into a bridge that builds the deepest angle, the connection most flush, the screaming heartbeat second where they are not two but one, one, one.

“I never thought you’d let me do this to you,” Pete’s wet mouth breathes into Patrick’s ear, each obliterating drive of his hips bringing Patrick nearer to that plenipotentiary edge.

“I never knew I was allowed to want it,” Patrick replies, twisting his head to catch Pete’s open mouth in a tooth-clashing kiss. “Know what else I want?”

Pete makes a sound like the answer will probably kill him. His hips work faster, deliberation folding under the weight of frenzy.

“I want to come on you. I want to make you a dizzy fucking mess.” Pete moans low in answer; Patrick rolls his body slow, trading their legs’ places with care born of knowing with certainty he will surely fucking die without Pete’s dick buried in him. They are awkward, clumsy: when their eyes meet, their pants and moans muddle together with laughter. Whose knee goes where? Oh shit, not like that, testicles—! It is exactly like coming home, their pupils dilated and wide but gaze soft with tenderness, familiarity, the human humor of sex. Patrick has never felt so whole, so awake, so… plugged in.

“You are the missing piece of me,” he whispers, looking into Pete’s happy, melting eyes.

Sweaty and flushed and halfway to rapture, Pete cracks a breathless grin, says, “The prostate: where souls meet,” and smashes his lips and teeth in a ragged kiss to Patrick’s forehead as the relentless momentum of his hips brings their souls together again, again, again—

Patrick comes with a feeling like he’s dancing on the ring of a planet, like he’s transcended the mortal lane, like he’s freefalling through all four dimensions in opposite directions. Patrick comes with more than release but _relief_ , the pent-up pressure of over a decade all bleeding off at once, a goddamn firework. He comes gasping and spurts hot and shining all over Pete’s tawny abs, glazing his bartskull tattoo. He watches Pete’s face contract with pleasure, feels Pete’s body goes rigid, feels the hot rush inside of him when Pete comes too.

Pete collapses on top of him, Patrick’s cum sticky between them, Pete’s teeth bared grinning against Patrick’s neck. “Best match ever,” Pete laughs against his skin, boneless with gratification,

“Compares favorably to last night’s floozy,” teases Patrick.

Pete bites his neck without real ferocity, saying, “It’s such an honor to be a notch in Patrick Stump’s bedpost.”

“Imagine how I feel as a line in one of Pete Wentz’s songs.”

“You’re every line in his songs. That guy’s got way too many.”

Patrick turns his head, catching Pete’s mouth. “I hope he’s got a few more,” he says.

“A _few_? _Already_? You insatiable minx!”

Patrick rolls them over, landing Pete on his back and grinning like a carnivore at all that amazing, vulnerable flesh. A primordial part of his brain purrs to life, surveying the expanse before him and declaring _mine_. Patrick feels about 16 years old, his dick already perking up again, full of feverish ideas and nefarious plans.

“You’re a disaster,” Patrick grins, moving down Pete’s body with pursed pink lips. He runs his tongue over his lips, which feels ridiculous but effective too. Pete wriggles underneath him and Patrick says, as salaciously as possible, “Let me clean you up.”

It is definitely, absolutely, perilously insane, but: the next night they’re in the next city, and Patrick leans with his body against the wall he shares with Pete, not bothering to stifle his moans while he strokes his own dick.

With a mad, happy, smile, he opens Grindr again. He swipes left til he finds Pete’s torso. He types _better hurry, im close_ and presses his mouth to the wall to let out an extra lascivious groan.

He doesn’t know what they’re doing, but he can’t wait to do it again. Two-point-five seconds after his message, Pete’s knock sounds at the hotel room door. Patrick takes this as a sign of agreement: they’ve waited long enough.


End file.
